by Bob Hamer
Her employment at the hospital was not of her choosing. Her parole officer made the arrangement. Each day Dawn worked her way through every hospital room on the two floors for which she had responsibility. It was the same thing for each eight-hour shift: deliver the food trays and pick up the food trays. Simple, precise, and boring, but failure to fulfill her duties meant a loss of freedom.
When she reached the end of the hall, she felt her cell phone vibrate. She stepped into the stairwell and pulled the phone from her pocket.
Personal calls during work hours were a strict no-no. It wasn't that the job was so great but she was on a work-release program. If she got fired, her parole would be revoked, and she'd be back at Chowchilla, the Central California Women's Facility. It may not have been as bad as the men's prisons at Pelican Bay or Corcoran, but CCWF was not where she wanted to be.
"Hey, baby, guess who's here?"
"You at the hospital?" asked Mickey.
"Yeah."
"I need something."
"But guess who is here?"
"I'm not into games. I need you to get me something."
"Mickey, don't ask me to get any drugs again. They keep that all pretty locked up."
"No stupid, I need some information. They brought in some woman last night who got shot on Mulholland. A preacher who was with her got killed. See what you can find out about that."
"I'll try. But you'll never guess who's here?"
"Who?"
"Bobby Himmler. The Feds are guarding him. He's got a busted ankle with all kinds of pins sticking out. It looks real bad, but Mr. Sunshine is on a drip so he's not feeling any pain."
"How long has he been there?"
"I don't know. I was off the last two days."
"Can you find out when the Feds got him and what he did?"
"I don't know. I can ask. Not sure anyone will tell me."
"Pull the chart. The medical files might have something."
"You're asking a lot, baby. I have to be careful. If I screw up here, I'll end up back in prison."
"Hey, Nike it?"
"Huh?" asked a confused Dawn.
"Just do it!"
"Okay, I'll try. I better go. I love you."
Mickey didn't respond.
"I said I love you."
"Yeah, baby, whatever, just get me the info."
It was not the response she was hoping to hear.
Dawn left the cart parked in the hallway and retreated to the outdoor patio where smoking was allowed. She reached into her pocket, pulled out the pack of Marlboro Lights, and removed a cigarette. Her mind was still on the conversation with Mickey Donovan.
She loved Mickey but wasn't certain he would ever commit. Dawn thought about what she brought to the table . . . a great body. But it was accompanied by a felony rap sheet and at least, for now, a minimum-wage job to satisfy the conditions of her release. The only real skills she thought she had were in bed. She wasn't quite a high-line hooker working the Beverly Hills escort trade, but she made decent money in the downtown luxury bars. She never told her biker boyfriend how she supported herself. He probably suspected but cared so little he never inquired.
Mickey was bad, but he was also a "bad actor" as he liked to joke. He had his SAG card and appeared in a couple of biker movies which went straight to DVD. He hoped someday to make it in Hollywood, but his bad-boy good looks would only take him so far. If he had any talent, he might have a shot, but usually his lines were limited to dropping a few f-bombs in crowd scenes.
Dawn, however, believed in him and thought if he devoted more time to acting and less time to acting the stooge for Boris Gregorian he could succeed. She was ready to commit, even settle down and marry. She loved Mickey, maybe the first man she ever loved. She slept with hundreds but always for money. With Mickey it was love. How could she ever convince him? She had to give him more than a good time. She had to be there when he needed her, and now he needed her. He gave her a mission. Maybe if she got the information, Mickey would see how much she really loved him. She was ready to risk a trip back to prison just to accommodate the man she loved.
In her mind she rehearsed the plan. After finishing the cigarette and tamping it out in the metal ashtray, she unbuttoned the top two buttons on her blouse and returned to the hallway.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Dawn headed toward Himmler's room pushing the cart loaded with dirty trays. She stopped in front of the newly minted FBI agent guarding the door, "Can I get you and your partner some food? We have extra meals we're just going to throw away. There's no sense letting it go to waste."
"I think we're okay," said the probationary agent trying to act official but appreciating interest from the blonde.
"Seems like a waste of food. I tasted today's lunch. It's pretty good. The food really isn't that bad for hospital food. Let me get you something."
"No, we're fine."
"Why not ask your partner? He may want something. Wait, I've got a better idea, why not just let me bring you two trays? My dad used to be a cop. I know you don't get paid much so I'd hate for you to pass up a freebie."
She gave him a seductive smile when she said "freebie," tilting her head in such a way no man would question her intent.
"Well . . ."
"You guys detectives with North Hollywood?"
"No, FBI."
She purposely bent over to rearrange some trays on the lower shelves of the cart. She knew exactly what she was doing, and even if the rookie agent had a clue as to her motives, he appreciated the move. She was good.
"FBI, wow!" She said as she slowly rose, still bent at the waist. "My dad always wanted to be an FBI agent. He said you guys were the best and the smartest. It must be really cool to be a Fed. You have to be so proud. Not everyone can be an FBI agent. So this guy in the bed isn't some ordinary crook, huh? He must be big time. I didn't pay much attention when I went in to get his tray. He didn't look like some mob boss or anything. He's not a terrorist, is he? I know you guys work those terrorism cases, the really important stuff."
"No, he's just a drug dealer who got caught last night."
"Last night? I guess they were pretty busy here last night."
"Yeah, that's what I heard. They just called me in for this."
"You must be SWAT or something if they've got you watching a prisoner. Was this guy with that woman who got shot? That was horrible. It was all over the news. Some preacher got killed too. Was this all part of the same case?"
"No, that was something different."
"I can't believe somebody would kill a minister." Then pointing upward, "You're messing with the man upstairs when you do something like that, know what I'm saying?"
"Yeah, God can't be too happy."
"I should say not. The woman's in this hospital too, you know."
"Yeah," said the agent, not realizing he was being played.
"Are the two cases related?"
"No, she's the wife of an FBI agent," said the agent enjoying the attention and the exchange.
"No way, really? The woman who was with the minister is an FBI agent's wife?"
"Yes."
"I'd hate to be the guy who pulled that trigger. You're messing with the big boys now. You're messing with the G-men," she smiled. "I saw Public Enemy. That was a good movie. So do you have any idea who shot the woman?"
"We're not really sure."
"I hope you find the guy who did it. So what happened to this guy's leg in here? Looks like it must be pretty painful. I know the Feds aren't real bad like the local cops. You don't beat guys up. You didn't beat him up did you? My dad said you were the best. Always fair."
"No, we didn't beat him up. He broke his ankle running from an undercover deal."
"A drug deal?"
&nb
sp; "Yeah."
Dawn started laughing. "No fooling?"
The agent nodded.
"Anybody should know you can't run from the Feds. Good job. Anybody who deals drugs needs to go away for a long time. Thanks for keeping us safe. Let me go get you guys two meals, and I'll try to find some extra desserts. You deserve it for getting scum like that off the street. That's some dangerous work. Glad it was him who got hurt and not one of you guys."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Matt, Dwayne, and Steve arrived at the hospital in short order and parked near the entrance in a "law enforcement only" section of the lot. Dwayne hung his microphone over the rearview mirror and threw an FBI Supervisor placard in the windshield.
"I need one of those for my personal car," said Matt. "I always seem to run out of quarters when I park on the street."
"Ever hear 'rank has its privilege'?" asked Dwayne.
"You mean I'd have to attend all those supervisory committee meetings just to get free parking?"
"You got it, big guy," answered Dwayne.
"Forgetaboutit," said Matt, doing his best Tony Soprano imitation.
As they approached, the automatic doors to the hospital entrance opened as if welcoming royalty to the medical establishment. "Bet the Queen Mother wishes she could install these in her office," said Steve.
"I think it's in next year's budget," said Matt.
In the squad bay they were known as "Christmas help," high ranking administrators who cared little about the mission or the people, only their advancement. They came and went with increasing frequency as soon as openings at headquarters or the larger offices became available. Unfortunately for the agents in Los Angeles, SAC Pamela Clinton, the Queen Mother, stayed well beyond the holiday rush. She was as by-the-book as anyone in the Bureau. She attempted to preside over her minions with an iron fist, but most of the street agents ignored her directives and managed to solve cases in spite of her obstacle-laden policies. She micromanaged even the minutia. Her fingerprints were all over every operation until it went south; then somehow she miraculously managed to extricate herself from a paper trail leading to her office. Fortunately for her, democracy had no place inside the FBI. She had no shot at an elected position. She irritated nearly everyone in and out of the Bureau. Her management theory was to avoid confrontation, follow all regulations, and take no risks. It served her well. Why mess with success? She was number two in the pecking order of the second largest field office in the FBI. Her meteoric rise within the Bureau was legendary. A slot at headquarters awaited, and every agent in L.A. hoped to expedite the next promotion.
"Did you tell her about last night?" asked Matt turning to Dwayne.
"Not yet. She's in Santa Barbara at some conference and isn't scheduled back until later this afternoon."
"Don't you read her all-agent e-mails?" said Steve.
Matt snapped his fingers. "You're absolutely right. I forgot all about that. I even marked it in my day planner. Funny how something as important as her travel schedule slipped my mind."
"You might want to check with Caitlin, but from everything I read, Christianity is supposed to include a more compassionate spirit," said Dwayne.
"She's mentioned it a couple of times. It just doesn't seem to be taking."
They walked past the information desk and headed toward the elevators. Dwayne pressed the elevator button, the doors opened, and the three entered, making their way toward the fourth floor.
"Hard to believe we're housing an FBI agent's wife and pond scum in the same medical facility," said Steve.
Dwayne nodded. "I need to check with the doctor and see if we can't get Himmler transferred to Terminal Island or at least to County. These nurses shouldn't have to put up with him."
"Oh, but he is a child of God, a holy creation," said Matt with a smile.
"Maybe Caitlin is wearing you down," said Dwayne.
As they exited the elevator, Dwayne said, "Let's check in with the nurses first."
"Why, they got a cute one working the day shift?" asked Steve.
"Not that I know of. I just want to get the 4-1-1 on our patient before I have to spend the rest of the afternoon with Hitler's love child."
To the surprise of all three and especially Steve, the shift nurse looked like Lucy Liu, a real live Charlie's Angel. Steve gave Matt an impish grin and decided it was important to spend extra time learning all about the medical prognosis of Himmler. Dwayne and Matt listened politely as Steve conjured up questions. Finally, with Matt giving him the practiced death stare he perfected for his undercover assignments, Steve took the hint. He started to excuse himself but then looked at Matt and with a command voice said, "You guys check on our prisoner. I'll finish up here."
Steve continued to feign interest in all things medical.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
As they walked to Himmler's room, a smiling Dwayne Washington said, "Wow! Nurses who look like that almost make a prolonged hospital stay worthwhile. We might have to keep Himmler here a lot longer than I originally planned."
The probationary agent seated outside Himmler's room recognized Dwayne and jumped to a semi-rigid attention when the two approached. Matt stifled a laugh.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Washington," said the young agent.
"Good afternoon," said Dwayne cautiously. "How long you been out of the academy?"
"Three weeks, sir."
"What'd you do before you came in?"
"Law school, sir. I came in right after I graduated."
"Well, call me Dwayne and save the sirs for the ADIC when you're really in trouble. When that time comes, and it will if you're doing your job, ask this guy. He's on OPR's Favorite Hits list. His personnel file is multivolume. This is Matt Hogan, and he's actually a case study at Quantico's management training program," said Dwayne as he extended his hand.
"I'm Gavin James."
"Welcome to the FBI and Los Angeles, Gavin. But relax, it's a long ride to retirement. I understand our boy's been asking for us."
"Yes, sir, he has."
Matt also shook hands and followed Dwayne into Himmler's room. A second agent was sitting in a chair next to the window. Before the agents could say anything, Himmler said, "It's about time. Man, I'm gonna make you guys heroes."
Dwayne looked at the young agent who said, "He's been whining ever since the noon news came on. Claims he's going to get the reward the city council is offering."
"That's right," said Himmler. "I got all the answers."
Dwayne turned to the probationary agent. "Matt and I will handle this. Why don't you guys go grab some lunch. I'll get you on your cell phone when we're ready to leave."
"Sounds great. Thanks," said the agent as he left the room.
"Get out your notebooks; I'm ready to spill my guts . . . if the price is right," said Himmler pausing then asking, "Matt, is that your real name?"
"Yeah, it's Matt."
"Well, Matt, you did a great job. You fooled me. I thought you were one of us. It is a pleasure to be fooled by a professional. Couple times the cops tried to run somebody in on me and I smelled it," said Himmler.
"So I passed the smell test."
"Yeah, you did," said Himmler smiling.
"I guess that's a compliment," said Matt nodding his head slightly, a smirk beginning to erupt on his face.
"Oh yeah, I mean it. You were good."
"Thanks."
Dwayne interrupted, "If we could get beyond the accolades. You got something for us?"
Himmler lit up like a Christmas tree. "That I do, that I do. Saw the news. Saw the mayor right there on the noon news." Himmler pointed to his TV. "Saw him say they were offering some big reward for information, how'd he say 'leading to the arrest and conviction' of the people responsible for a killing last night of some minis
ter and an unidentified girl. Something also about a witness still alive. I figured that makes what I got important to you guys."
Dwayne said nothing.
"Get to the point, Bobby," said Matt.
"I know the girl."
"What girl?"
"The one they showed on the news."
"And do you have a name for this girl?"
"She goes by Crystal but her real name's Annika."
Dwayne gave Himmler a noncommittal look waiting for an answer.
"Annika what?" asked Matt.
"I don't have a last name. She worked on the Boulevard."
"You mean a hooker?"
"Not really a walker. She was a stripper at the Russian Veil, Boris Gregorian's spot."
"And you know this how?" said Matt.
"My cousin and I hang out there all the time, bikers and bad guys dropping a lot of coin in the back room. Cheap beer and dirty women, know what I mean? Most of them girls are Russian, maybe Ukrainian. They all come from those commie countries over there. It's a pretty sophisticated setup."
"Sophisticated, that's a big word, Bobby," said Matt.
Himmler smiled, "It may be a big word, but I know it means big bucks for me. Where do I sign up for my prize money?"
"You're jumping some major hurdles," said Matt. "It's a long way to payday if that's all you've got."
"Really?" said Himmler almost incredulous his information didn't rate city council's largess. The smile drained from his face, and his demeanor changed in an instant.
"You didn't really believe this is all you have to do to collect?" asked Matt.
